Oh. Oh. Oh.
It was the worst eighty minutes.
I thought I was going to puke.
Or pass out.
At one point I hid my face in the arm of the couch.
I spent half the time hugging my weeping son, who was bereft at the thought we might lose.
The tension was unbearable.
The sense of impending doom palpable.
Could it all have come to this... again?
Were we going to see our dreams go up in smoke... again?
Our country, so buoyant, excited and full of hope just that morning.
Preparing for the biggest party we've ever seen.
Strangers smiling at each other in the streets.
Flags adorning every passing car, every building, every lamp post.
Could this be the worst anticlimax in our country's sporting history?
The Rugby World Cup.
Don't groan.
Don't say, "It's just a game".
Its more than that.
This was for honour. This was for pride.
This was for the ability to finally finally be able to hold up our heads and say, We did it.
We are not Chokers.
The whole country {apart from those of you who missed out on the Rugby gene} has been brought together as we hosted this event.
Even from the Other Side of the World, we watched every match, cheering on our boys, doing the haka, singing the anthem in Maori and in English.
We watched the semi-final against Australia with our bags packed and as soon as the whistle blew we raced to the airport for our plane home, ecstatic.
We had beaten our toughest opposition, we thought.
The World Cup is as good as ours.
And that was the mood of the country, wasn't it?
Except for those realists, the ones who have watched us sent home by the French twice before.
We brushed off their warnings with a shrug.
Our boys in Black have already beaten them just a few weeks ago.
The Tongans beat them too.
The Welsh only lost to them by one measly point after playing with fourteen men for nearly the whole match.
Everyone knew the Welsh were the better side.
We can beat those Frenchies, we gleamed, as we chilled the champagne and readied the fireworks.
Lesson Learned.
Never underestimate a Frenchman.
Eighty painful minutes of sickening tension.
In the end, just one point in it. One lousy point.
ONE LOUSY POINT!
But this time it was OUR lousy point!
We'll take it!
We'll scream until our throats are still raw the next day.
We'll cry unashamedly. Tears will roll down our cheeks.
Our bodies will go weak with relief.
We did it.
Finally.
After twenty-four years of defeat and disappointment... the Golden Cup is ours.
And I am off to the ticker tape parade to scream and shout and hug strangers and see Richie McCaw lift that golden World Cup with my own bleary eyes...
WE WON THE RUGBY WORLD CUP!
I am Ecstatic. And so is New Zealand.
P.S. Photos taken on Saturday down at Auckland's waterfront, where strangers were smiling and flags were waving down at the Viaduct as they prepared The Fan Zones for Party Central. Apart from the ones of the All Blacks - those are from here
